


Keep Out The Stars

by Kitty (Katatafish)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Angst, Breathplay, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Dubious Consent, Multi, Prostitution, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: Someone had once told him that the cold nights are always the most lucrative, when a city’s dissolute population seeks out a bed far warmer and inviting than their own, no matter the price. Lovino is inclined to believe that’s true- especially on the part of the Englishmen of the island, who despite their affinity for the cooler weather, still seem to prefer his bronzed skin to a coat in the early hours of the morning.





	Keep Out The Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ludwiggle73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Partners in Crime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547091) by [Ludwiggle73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73). 



_Keep out the stars, turn out the lights-_

_This little world is yours tonight._

 

Natalya dresses up for the first night.

Of course, they all do, to some degree. There is probably not a single person on Earth that understands the value of first impressions better than a whore, street or otherwise. Too-tight corsets, skirts that sweep the floorboards, and the finest artificial silk that pennies can buy are always mainstays. The Russian, on the other hand, has opted for the far more sensible, and far more expensive wool and fur- smart choices, it’s clear that she’s not the one on the shop shelf this evening. And in a perhaps unexpected yet ardently welcome benefit, the dead fox wrapped around her delicate shoulders will no doubt keep her bones from rattling in the chill that whistles through the cracks in the stonework, a chill that the angels will soon become far too well acquainted with.

None of them are entirely sure why their proctor had been so kind as to grace the mass with her divine presence, but what is perhaps more shocking, is the fact that she does not look out of place from her perch on the altar, sat atop a cabinet not much shorter than herself, with a dozen willowy perfumed figures lying lithely at her feet on velveteen couches; all this, despite her similarly slight features, flaxen hair, and unblemished skin. It must be said- the shadows that strike down on her face from the rafters, casting her commanding brow and glittering eyes in shades of grey, do suit her to some degree. It’s an effect most unlike the jewel toned patterns that paint the floor from the vibrant windows, whenever the sun dares show its face.

She barely turns her head, and there is little indication of her doing so to the untrained eye, but Natalya turns her gaze to focus intently on the trembling Spaniard sat in the corner, on his own creaking chair, but on an equal level to the angels. His hair is getting far too long to be respectable, though she supposes that is hardly an issue now, if indeed it ever was. His hands rattle in his lap, each finger attempting to twist around another. He stares down at the pained movement as if his gaze will suddenly relax each joint, and interlock each digit. The true horror that has become of those hands, each sallow bruise, each freak dent left by shattered bone, each split fingernail- is hidden behind a glove of fine black leather, much finer than the Spaniard should have been able to afford. The angels have begun to suspect something, but even with their experience, none of them could guess the story behind the sight. An accident, perhaps, years ago, back on the mainland- or maybe one too many years spent piecing in the cotton mill.

Natalya knows, and she smiles, as she relieves the memory in her head- and not for the first time. It’s a sordid feeling, though not one in any way unfamiliar to her, to be so proud of what she’d been responsible for. After all, she’s hardly an advocate for conformity.

A gramophone plays from the corner of the lobby- that, like the majority of the furniture, is new, but it still skips and creaks and plays a blurred tune that sounds vaguely familiar, though it’s unlikely to be one that the angels could name. It’s been playing for a while now, the same notes over and over, with no interruption. There has been no other sound- not even a cough, nor a sigh, nor a shiver.

The door has been open just as long, and not a soul has passed through its frame. A leather bound book with virginal-white paper lies open and empty, the pen beside it left untested.

It takes a few minutes over two hours for the first man to cross the threshold and mark St Raphaela’s as officially, open for business. Two hours of elegant nails tapping with a perfect, natural rhythm against polished wood; of absent minded sighs, and irritated huffs on top of them; of watching the hands of the clock march on, counting along in their heads to make sure that it’s not running far slower than it seems to be. Some of them come close to rising from their seats and making their way over to the windows, and even out of the door and further in to the high street- but that would be soliciting, a charge most of them are all too familiar with, and it would not do well to have the establishment run dry of any merchandise on its opening night. That tends to take around a fortnight, in their seasoned experience.

He’s tall, almost unnaturally tall, and just as broad shouldered. His hat is pulled down far over his brow, hiding his eyes under a dark shadow. The collar of his coat has been pulled up so far that it almost touches the brim, rendering only his bulging nose visible in the low light. He keeps his hands fisted in his pockets, the crowd can see them clench and twist in the cheap fabric. He’s nervous- they’re even more so. If they were wearing even less clothing than they are, with their faces plastered with a thicker layer of wax maquillage, and shivering under the light of casino back alleys, perhaps the man would feel far more confident in his movements. Unfortunately for all of them, they’re not.

No one is entirely sure what to do, at first- this is uncharted territory. Nobody wants to make the first move. Under his superior’s scornful eye, the shaking proprietor stays where he sits.

It might be a coincidence. Some of them would almost call it a miracle, one both amazingly apt and sickeningly blasphemous at the same time- others are loath to make that connection. But from the moment those factory floor worn boots first pass through the door frame, and when the hat and coat have become the first to grace an unnecessarily intricately carved stand, the floodgates burst; and thus, begins the first night of true commerce in the Church.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t enjoy it- he barely even puts up with it. But Lovino is starting to prefer these types of clients. And that is a thought that would once have sickened him. Now, it hardly even occurs.

The temperature in the room is less than ideal. The curtains may be thick enough to completely separate it from the world outside, and the rugs may be the most plush his feet have ever had the pleasure of sinking in to. The mattress is just firm enough that he can stay upright on his hands and knees when the situation calls for it, but still sink in to its warmth when he’s thrown on to his back, and there’s a haphazardly rolled duvet tucked away under the bed frame for the time being. But still, he feels the cold.

He can count each little bump that decorates his skin as they appear one by one in quick succession- it keeps him distracted from focusing on the breeze that strokes the contours of his flesh, and the way it clashes with the hot breaths on his earlobes. A shivering whore is not an attractive whore- no one knows this more intimately than him, and he’s long since perfected the art of masking his shivers. And, of course, when his John fails to keep his cock up in the cold, it will inevitably by Lovino (or more often than not, Lovino’s stomach, wrists, or back), that will face the consequences. So- like tonight- when the backs of his thighs still ache, and his wrists tremble from holding up his weight, it seems to be something of a blessing.

Someone had once told him that the cold nights are always the most lucrative, when a city’s dissolute population seeks out a bed far warmer and inviting than their own, no matter the price. Lovino is inclined to believe that’s true- especially on the part of the Englishmen of the island, who despite their affinity for the cooler weather, still seem to prefer his bronzed skin to a coat in the early hours of the morning.

They’re certainly a special breed, though it’s not as if Lovino is complaining.

This one, like all the rest, has left his hat and coat by the front door, though he has kept his shirt buttoned all the way up to the top. He doesn’t wear a tie, nor any sort of waistcoat or knitted vest. He snuffs out the lamps before the Italian even gets a proper look at his face, plunging the room into darkness, though not a particularly sinister one. They both know exactly where they are, what they’re there for, and where all of the important- implements- for the evening, are located. If anything, turning the lights down is an act of mercy. Once they’ve managed to stumble their way over to the bed, and there’s not much in the way of obstructions, then that’s the hard part over and done with.

The boots are the first things to go. Heavy-soled things of leather drawn tight by the rain, with laces that have begun to disintegrate, that thump down on the hardwood of the floor, missing the rug by inches. Then the shirt (stained), and the trousers (thankfully not stained) follow. Lovino takes far less time to rid himself of what little clothing he’s been blessed with. The socks, in rather a bold move, remain- but much like the boots, the toes are always the first to go in the cold, and Lovino can’t blame him.

Lying, or kneeling; it’s a difficult decision, even now. On this occasion, it’s one the Englishman makes for him, and no sooner does he realise that the John has made his way across the room is there a calloused hand pressing down firmly between his shoulder blades. Lovino’s own hands meet the bed sheet with the force of his falling torso behind them, and he locks his shoulders, steadying himself, before shuffling his knees backwards to the edge of the mattress. A leg, covered in coarse hair and shaking with excess fat swings up to stand next to him, bent at the knee. The hands, still cold and stiff, move down to rest atop his hipbones without even the slightest hint of sensuality.

They always pay for twenty minutes. A matter of pride, Lovino supposes. They never use all of it. They rarely use half of it- and a significant minority barely manage a quarter. That’s what he prefers- not likes- about the English. They don’t waste his time. They do what they’ve come to do without a single word, and leave promptly; in the process, giving Lovino plenty of time to clean himself, change the bed sheet if need be, have a glass of shit wine that’s almost not worth drinking, and perhaps- if he’s especially lucky- smoke half a leftover cigarette he’d left himself earlier in the day for this very moment.

The French, on the other hand, are an entirely different species, and not one that Lovino particularly likes to consider. They don’t tend to happen upon St Raphaela’s often; There’s a place- apartment 4c in the Maison de Peuplier building, slightly further inland than the coast but still firmly French- that has proved far more popular with that crowd. A woman lives there, works there. Lovino doesn’t know her name, but he knows that her face is very beautiful- unmarred by pox scars or blemishes. She charges more than the Church does, and presumably, without two different pimps hanging over her head, earns a lot more than the angels. But she struggles to spend it.

Unlike the English high street, which Lovino could waltz down at any given moment without receiving a single stare, if he so desired, the French shore is full of faces full of disdainful recognition. None of them dare to admit the source of that recognition- which just so happens to be the woman from apartment 4c- though Lovino has heard on more than one occasion, whether it is true or not, that she has been chased from the streets, and back in to the Maison de Peuplier, scorned by the half of the city she’s chosen to make her home. At least on his half of the island, Lovino is still a person, no matter how sinful he may be.

 

* * *

 

The difference between the English clients that will soon all-but make St Raphaelas something of a home away from home, and the stray passing Frenchmen, is perhaps exhibited in no easier context to understand than on that first night.

Across the corridor from where Lovino rocks in place- pushed down by a man who seems to have somewhere else to be in a rather short amount of time, in a room so dark he can hardly see his fingers twisting together barely inches from his face- Feliciano lies on his back, completely exposed to the air, bathed in the golden light of several flickering gas lamps. One knee is drawn up, foot tucked almost underneath his thigh in an attempt to keep the blood flowing through it. The other lies straight on the bed. He thinks about swapping, but refrains, loath to disturb the studying gaze of the man stood at the foot of the bed. Instead, to keep his mind and his limbs from going mad in the stillness, he reaches a tentative hand up to the lace trim of an Oxford pillowcase, following the pattern with deft fingertips as the man continues to stare.

He doesn’t look into Feliciano’s eyes, or indeed, up at his face at all. Blue eyes trace the lines of Feliciano’s form, slight and delicate, but not quite malnourished. The man himself is almost as svelte, that much is clear even underneath his jacket- especially in comparison to the paunch that hangs over the boy’s brother. It’s an odd sensation, Feliciano thinks, to be watched so intently in his most vulnerable form by someone who has not even loosened his tie, one that stirs the beginnings of concern deep in the pit of his stomach.

A delicate touch begins to trail up the insides of his legs, inch by agonising inch, as the man sets his knee up on the edge of the plush mattress, and shifts to lean over the prone figure beneath him. The soft strokes are shy- almost hesitant- but it is clear that it is far from the patron’s first time at such an establishment. It seems almost as if he can’t decide whether or not the delectably soft, bronzed expanse of flesh is worthy of the touch of his own delicate fingers. He is, undeniably, the one in charge of the situation. And the boy, who some would say held little else in his heart than the desire to please people, succumbs to the manipulative trick.

Each tiny hair on his body stands to attention as the hands travel further up. His soft breath catches in his throat as they reach the top of his inner thighs, and stop there for only a second, no longer. His bottom lip is trapped by bleached teeth as they follow the contours of his hips, and trace the lines of his waif-like torso. Feliciano does nothing short of moaning into the touch, arching his back ever so slightly, and dragging his right leg up along the sheets. An unreadable face looms ever closer to his own, and something within him tells him to reach up and caress the man’s jaw with an even more exquisite touch- the other half, tormented by a feeling not entirely unlike fear and apprehension, beg him to keep them frozen by his sides, wrapped up in the sheet he has grabbed on either side to keep himself grounded.

He does not move them.

Feliciano sees the exact moment in which the man’s eyes seem to dull considerably, yet inexplicably brighten with excitement in the same second- when he stabilises his kneel on the bed, leans in so close that the Italian can feel each whisker on the soft skin behind his ear, hear each shallow breath; when his hands move slowly to wrap around the sweet valley of his throat- and when he begins to press down.

At first, Feli pretends not to notice the way that it suddenly becomes harder to breathe in. His fists twist tightly in the over-starched sheets. A burning sensation crawls up his neck, and into his cheeks as they are painted a peculiar shade of purple. His eyes begin to sting like he’s tearing up acid.

The breath on his ear becomes warmer, mockingly so, as he listens to his own pulse throb under the press. Without realising, he kicks a leg up to the man’s hips in a subconscious attempt to free himself from under his thumb- the man giggles, in a sickeningly childish way, his expression dark and distant.

And suddenly, like a siren caught in a corsaire’s net, his body begins to thrash and roll, his spine curving to inhuman angles. He strains to lift his shoulders even an inch off the pillow, before they’re unceremoniously thrown back down by an immense weight. What little bursts of light and colour he could see have blurred in to one. He can no longer discern the details of the face over him.

Then as though it had never happened- as if the boy, who’s darkest thoughts tend to stray no further than the disappointment of reaching the fruit market only minutes too late and having to settle for green apples rather than red, had conjured the situation from his mind- he falls back down to the mattress. The shadows clear, and the muscles at his decolletage soften.

The skin-and-lead collar around his throat loosens, and every drop of salt-laced oxygen on the island seems to rush into his lungs at once. The taller figure moves back down between his legs, still tense and drawn up, but the boy doesn’t feel the way his hands move back to roam over his glistening skin. He stares up, golden eyes tainted by slight red trails following the intricate filigree decorating the ceiling. The light stays blurred.

 

* * *

 

As tragic as it sounds- and it sounds tragic, because it _is_ tragic- the idea of waking up to the sound of weeping is not one in any way unknown to Lovino, be it his own, or another just as familiar sounding. So when he hears the sound of soft sobs and pained gasps over the creak of the door, when moonlight begins to spill into the room he’s reluctant to call his own, it takes only seconds for him to drag himself back to the world of the living to watch his brother cower in the door frame, swaddled in a thin, worn sheet.

His heart doesn’t clench at the sight anymore, and neither of them make a move to say anything. The tremble of his fingertips, the trails of silver down his face, the mottle mauve of his skin- they say enough.

He lifts the corner of the duvet without thinking, and lets Feliciano ensnare him within his fragile arms, then rest his nose in the crook of the elder brother’s neck. He’s learned to cry silently- the inconsistent pattern of forced breaths on Lovino’s skin the only indication that Feliciano has not slipped into dreaming no sooner has his head touched the pillow.

Lovino watches the rise and fall of his chest grow even and idle, as if even the subconscious movement of the muscles is too much for him to bear. The boy’s hair is soft under his fingertips.

The candles in the corridor burn themselves out- the room darkens with them.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've said enough about how wonderful and supportive Ludwiggle73 is. They're genuinely one of the most lovely people I've had the honour of talking to, however briefly, and it has been an even greater honour of mine to get to read their works. I've fallen in love with the way they weave intricate stories, with realistic characters in finely curated worlds. I haven't stopped thinking about their stories since the first one I read, each new chapter is the highlight of my day/week, and I return to these stories on a regular basis. Thus, I was unable to stop myself from writing yet another 'fan-fic of a fan-fic'.
> 
> This has been sat on my laptop for some time now- I thought I had lost it in a mass exodus of files. And since beginnign writing, 'Partners in Crime' has been completed (perfectly, might I add), and now includes the backstory of my two favourite characters. As such, this no longer fits into the 'canon' of PiC, but I've decided to post it anyway. And, if I can get Ludwiggle's blessing, I'd love to post more fanworks of their writing (perhaps not of PiC, but I was a merch girl for several years, so Lovesick is calling to me).
> 
> 'But why not create your own stories?', I hear you cry. If you like my writing, you'll be pleased to know that I in fact do create my own stories over on my other ao3 account, Wintervention. So if you're a fan of pirate radio in the USSR, or Chinese restaurants at 3am, you can find more over there.


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